Genma jerked his head away from Kakashi's icy fingers. "What?" he demanded. A perfectly reasonable question. Cobwebby shreds of dream still clung, evaporating in the sunlight filtering through the canvas walls. Chasing Suguru, trying to work jutsu with broken, bleeding hands. They hurt. Of course. It was morning. At least in waking he knew they were whole, and Suguru was in his grave. There was nothing left of the man but his dogtags in Genma's utility kit by now, thanks to Kakashi's dismemberment and Genma's chemicals.

"The morning. It's good," Kakashi said blandly, as if he hadn't just had his fingers on Genma's pulse. As if nothing had happened at all. He pulled away and sat up, shivering at the chill. The flush to the tips of his ears gave him away, though.

Genma smirked. "Teach a guy one jutsu and he thinks he's a medic," he said with a short laugh. He didn't want to get up. Didn't want to leave the warmth of his blanket cocoon, but it was well past daybreak. And he was the real field medic here. He sat up with a long, low groan, stretching painfully stiff limbs and feeling every bruise, every ache his seizures the day before had earned him.

"How's your chest? You sound okay from here." Which was a relief and a half. By now, if that antidote had been going to fail, or the poison to reassert itself, it probably would have.